It’s tough to be a pig in Harlem as evidenced by A Little Love for the Pig (Please) and Pig Prejudice Revisited,
Despite the chill, the mighty swine abides.
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Stalking Corn on Dyckman Street
31 Jul
Cachapas y Mas
107 Dyckman Street
Inwood
There was a small booth on Dyckman street where corn along with other farm fresh goods were being sold. Across the street a vendor was selling roasted corn and batata (sweet potato) cooked on a gas grill. Further down the block another vendor had homemade empanadas hanging on hooks inside his makeshift cart. This was the scene I encountered on Dyckman Street on a humid summer evening on the way to Cachapas y Mas, the Veneuzuelan fast food place Zio had chosen for our group.
Roasted corn for sale on Dyckman Street.
Besides the abundance of corn, Dyckman Street, in the Inwood section of upper Manhattan was bustling; teeming with urban humanity—the street congested and loud with honking livery drivers. On the sidewalks, microscopic shorts for women hugged tightly over curvy female mannequins, while for men there were flamboyant, colorful dress shirts on racks. Wedged between the retail stores were an assortment of fast food fried chicken places, Dominican bakeries, and a number of Latin-style steakhouses; in other words, my kind of street.
Cachapas y Mas was clean, with a row of wooden picnic tables along with a few smaller, plastic-topped tables and chairs. A slick, flat screen television broadcast soccer from a Spanish language station. The menu was displayed on a digital screen above the cashier that electronically would shift from a picture of “cachapas,” to one of “patacones,” to one of “arepas,” and finally to “yoyos;”
Yoyos, patacones and empanadas.
I did scant research once Zio announced his pick, but enough to learn that the food was Venezuelan and that the specialty were meats sandwiched between either griddle toasted corn cakes (arepas and cachapas) or fried green plantains, also known as tostones (patacones) or yellow plantain, i.e. maduros (yoyos).
Our group of five, soon to be six once Rick arrived, grabbed one of the picnic tables and added two of the plastic chairs at either end to accommodate all of us. From where I sat, my eyes were just not up to the task of reading anything from the digital screen so I got up for a closer look.
The “man in charge,” either the owner or manager, noticed my curiosity—and my trusty camera—and offered advice. He suggested a drink called papelon to start. Over the din and through his accented English, he explained that the drink was made from lime with brown sugar—two of my favorite ingredients. How could I resist?
The papelon was a bit too sweet for me, but I found it refreshing. A little less sugar and maybe a shot or two of rum would have transformed the drink into a very exceptional cocktail.
Papelon: The Venezuelan cocktail, sans rum.
I brought the drink back to the table. A line to order was beginning to form. Though proper etiquette would have us wait until our party of six arrived; we were still waiting for Rick, but Mike from Yonkers and Zio, especially when noticing the line, would never let etiquette stand in the way of their gluttony, immediately got on the line.
Eugene, Gerry and I shook our heads at the rude behavior of our comrades.
“No class,” Gerry said, glancing at the time. “It’s not like Rick is more than a few minutes late.”
“I know. It’s pitiful. Sad, really.” I added while shaking my head at their disgraceful behavior.
Eugene said nothing; instead he rose and joined the line.
I sipped my papelon, squinted at the digital menu again, peered out onto Dyckman Street and not seeing Rick, took my place on the line behind Eugene.
As the line moved slowly forward, I turned around. Rick had arrived and was already on the line, a few spots behind me.
Yoyos or patacones? Those were the two finalists. But stuffed with what? They all pretty much had the same choices; cheese, ham and cheese, chicken, shredded beef, roast pork, steak, chorizo, grilled chicken or, if you had a thing against meat, and if you did, why were you here, then there was the avocado salad arepa offering.
I decided on a shredded beef patacone along with a pastelito; an empanada like snack the owner recommended that was stuffed with meat and cheese. What harm would a little more grease do?
All of us returned to the table to wait for our names to be called with our orders. Of course, Mike from Yonkers and Zio were first. Both ordering cachapas; Zio’s stuffed with chorizo, Mike from Yonkers with shredded beef.
Chorizo cachapas
Zio generously offered me a taste. The corn cake was slightly sweet and dense, but rich with the flavor of fresh corn. It complemented the salty chorizo perfectly. While they ate, I dug through the pastelito. It reminded me somewhat of a meat and cheese calzone, but with a Latin flair.
I heard the Spanish sing song of my name and shot up from my seat returning moments later with the patacone. Using the plastic fork and knife provided, I tried to saw through the fried green plantain. Both utensils were not up to the task, bending to the tough tostone exterior. Giving up, I ate it how it probably should have been eaten; like a sandwich. And though I was able to maneuver some of the juicy shredded beef into my mouth, much of it dropped onto my plastic tray.
Patacone with shredded beef
Zio easily finished the chorizo cachapas, but despite its gargantuan size, it just was not enough for his prodigious appetite. “I need more,” he mumbled and got up and ordered a beef empanada. The ground beef, onions and spices stuffed into a cornmeal pastry.
After taking a few bites, Zio put the empanada down. “It has a distinctly Alpo-like flavor,” he commented.
Nothing Alpo-like about this empanada.
He offered the remains of meat pie to me. I took a bite. “Hmmm, maybe, but it’s the best Alpo-like empanada I’ve ever had,” I said approvingly. The cornmeal pastry was crunchy with bits of coarse ground cornmeal and the meat was pungent, even aromatic, I was guessing from the amalgam of spices.
We make quick work of the cachapas, patacones, and empanadas and soon the dirty paper plates and napkins were piled high on our trays. With the exception of not experiencing a yoyo, I was more than satisfied with Cachapas y Mas.
The mess left behind.
As I made my way to my car, I could feel the patacone and all the other bites I had at Cachapas y Mas laying heavily in my belly. The buzz on Dyckman Street had subsided somewhat. I noticed that though the men’s flowered dress shirts had been removed from the street, the microscopic shorts on the female mannequins were still on display. Dyckman Street, I realized, was a place for those with better self control than I. I would be back. But it wouldn’t be soon.
Recession Special
27 Jul
Is “recession” a new Zagat food category? Can anyone chime in on their number one recession eatery? Why do I feel like I’m missing out on something?
The Chinatown Congee Wars: Part Two
24 Jul
Great N.Y. Noodletown vs. Congee Village
With my trusty congee taster, Luigi, away on a fresh air fund break, I needed an aide to help me finalize the war I started a couple of weeks ago. I knew no other worthy accomplice than Zio. And he was more than ready for the task.
Great N.Y. Noodletown
28 ½ Bowery
On an overcast morning, I found him loitering next to Great N.Y. Noodletown on the Bowery in Chinatown. One of the elderly women that Luigi had observed were so prevalent in Chinatown (The Chinatown Congee Wars: Part One) was sitting next to where Zio was standing, selling umbrellas, a handkerchief covering her mouth. Was she ahead of the whooping cough curve, or was the precaution a leftover from the bird flu epidemic? Zio didn’t seem to mind the close proximity and as soon as I arrived, we went into the restaurant.
Neither Zio nor I were strangers to Great N.Y. Noodletown though when I visited it was not usually for congee. I do recall ordering the comforting porridge at least once, but my memory of it is dim. It must have made enough of an impression, however, for me to include it in this very serious challenge.
Using all our resolve, Zio and I tried not to peek at the salt baked shrimp, the roast pig on rice, the squid with flowering chives, the triple delight noodles and all the other Noodletown greatest hits found on the menu. Instead we focused on congee only.
Knowing how good the shrimp usually is at Noodletown, I ordered a bowl of shrimp congee. Zio, also sticking to seafood, went with the sliced fish.
Of course, I needed to also compare Noodletown’s “cruller” with Big Wong’s and Congee’s.
The Noodletown cruller
“What the…?” Zio gasped when the cruller appeared on our table.
“It goes with the congee,” I explained.
But he was skeptical. He broke off a piece and ate it. “It’s like a grease sponge,” he said, demonstrating by squeezing the cruller and showing me the oil slick on his finger.
“Yeah, that’s why it’s a perfect accompaniment to congee. The grease works as a foil to the starch of the congee,” was the justification I offered, though not with much conviction.
Our bowls arrived. The steam from them formed a cumulus-like cloud around Zio’s rotund face. “You can’t eat this for about ten minutes,” he said. “You’ll fry the inside of your mouth.”
“That’s what the cruller is for,” I said. “Dip it in, like a doughnut.”
Zio scoffed at the idea.
Less than ten minutes later we were sipping the brutally hot gruel. The thin, rice porridge was infused with the flavor of the shrimp. And the pieces of shrimp—I counted six in my bowl—were bigger than golf balls.
Golf ball-sized shrimp.
Zio soon had his head buried in his congee. Using his spoon like a skilled surgeon, he methodically brought the hot soup and pieces of sliced fish to his open mouth, taking it in masterfully.
I watched his performance for a moment and then said, “You might not want to finish it.”
He picked his head up. “Huh?”
“We’ve got another place to try after this,” I reminded him. “Save room. If you eat too much here, you won’t be able to give the other contestant a fair shake.”
He thought for a moment. “You’re right,” he said and put down his spoon.
Reluctantly, we had the bowls wrapped up; our waiter sliding on plastic gloves in front of us, and then pouring each bowl into a take out container.
Congee Village
207 Bowery
Though the congee at N.Y. Noodletown was light, I could feel the density of the two enormous shrimps I ate while walking up the Bowery to our next destination. I hoped the exercise would offer relief and lesson the load there. There was still more work to do.
For sticklers, Congee Village might not be considered a Chinatown restaurant. Located a few blocks north of Delancey Street, you could say the restaurant was technically in the Lower East Side. But Chinese-run restaurant supply and lighting stores populated the street northward, along with an abundance of signage in Chinese; enough to figure Congee Village within Chinatown’s expanding sprawl.
A full bar and a trickling waterfall greeted us as we entered the very ornate Congee Village. This was a complete departure from the grungy, yet refreshingly familiar confines just experienced at N.Y Noodletown.
A lovely waterfall greets you upon entrance to Congee Village.
We were given a table in the dark, burnished wood laden dining room complete with large, family-sized booths and a flat screen television tuned, at this hour, to NY1 news. There were tablecloths and wine glasses on the tables yet the napkins were of the thin, paper variety.
“What a tourist trap,” Zio muttered.
I looked around. The few tables that were occupied were with groups of Chinese couples and families, and unless they were out of town Chinese, I had to disagree.
“Looks like a local favorite to me,” I said.
The menu, tourist trap or not, was impressive. Despite the name of the restaurant, we had to flip through a number of colorful pages to find the congee. When we did, the prices, waterfall and full bar notwithstanding, were actually lower than N.Y. Noodletown’s.
Sticking to the seafood theme of the day, I ordered the “crab porridge,” while Zio this time choose squid. If there were crullers, I just didn’t have the courage to order them.
The bowls arrived and looked like what Luigi and I had at Congee; pots with long handles. Smaller bowls were given out making it easier to share.
Crab porridge
A whole, blue crab was in my bowl, chopped into a few pieces. Like the shrimp infused the congee at Noodletown, the crab definitely added flavor to the bowl here at Congee Village. The melding of the shellfish broth with the rice congee was a revelatory match. To eat the crab, however, I had to fish out the pieces and pick the shells apart with my fingers. It was messy work and the thin napkins weren’t helping. But the congee was so good, even Zio’s crude, distasteful remark about what my fingers looked like coated in crab shells and overcooked rice gruel didn’t deter from my enjoyment of it.
Zio fished a piece of squid out of his congee. It was scored with numerous criss cross patterns. He examined it. “Why do they get fancy with the squid,” he complained.
“Does it taste good?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s fantastic,” Zio said.
“Then who cares.”
I sampled a piece and though it was tougher than I like, it too worked amazingly with the bland congee.
There would be no leftovers here. We could finish the congee and not worry about having to sample another. The crab remains were scattered across my small plate.
The remains of the crab.
“So what do you think?” I asked Zio.
“We really gotta pick a winner?” he whined.
I thought for a moment. I didn’t want to either. Each of the four congee joints had their merits. At Congee, I would stick with the pork and preserved egg while at Big Wong, how could I resist the roast pork congee? There was no denying that Noodletown’s shrimp congee was a one of a kind. And here, at Congee Village, I’ll forever swear by their crab porridge.
Yes, I know I’ve copped out. I couldn’t crown a champion. I’m just no good at these things—these numbered lists where you have to rank your favorites, whatever they may be. Congee preference is subjective. No matter how expert my opinion, I really can’t change someone else’s taste inclination. And in this case, one man’s congee just might be another man’s gruel.
The Hero of Mott Street
17 Jul
Parisi Bakery
198 Mott Street
Little Italy (also known as NoLita)
They call it a bakery, but in reality the bakery is a few blocks away on Elizabeth Street. This Parisi’s outpost specializes in magnificently-crafted heroes.
Heroes on the walls.
Maybe the pictures of Babe Ruth and other New York Yankees provide heroic inspiration.
Parisi’s meatball hero.
But finding hero nirvana is never easy and at Parisi’s there is the little problem of the line. The line begins to form just before noon and soon snakes out the door and onto Mott Street. I’ve many times preached my feelings about waiting on line for food. Unless times are very hard, don’t ever do it!
Even for this.
Parisi’s pepper and egg hero
There are ways to avoid the line quandary. It just takes a little planning. You’ll need to set your schedule around your visit to Parisi’s. Make that your priority for the day. Take a late breakfast or an early or very late lunch and you should be fine.
Tell me that’s not worth a schedule adjustment?
There is no seating at Parisi’s but who cares? You’ve got your hero. Don’t ask for more. Or maybe just a few loaves to take home.
And the Answer is…
18 JunOn Friday I presented you with the following photos:
Note the tiny yellow speck of rice I thought was a giveaway.
And where else would you find such a combination of condiments.
With those hints I challenged you to Name That Place.
I thought the hints were more than obvious, yet I only received a few correct responses identifying the place that has this unusual kitchen apparatus.
Where if you open one of those drawers, you will find this…
Yellow rice. Which is a staple of this place and used when eating this:
Rice and beans
As an accompaniment to this:
Picadillo
But that Chinese Zodiac paper place mat could confuse, as could the soy sauce above. Surely this is a Latin place with an Asian twist.
For forty plus years on the corner of 78th and Broadway, though remodeled several times, you can find this comidas china y criolla standby:
Le Caridad 78
Name That Place
15 JunThere were many times I would sit at the counter at the former incarnation of the place in question and stare at what you see in the following photo.
I’m sure there are other restaurant kitchens that have the same thing, whatever it’s called, but I had only seen it in use at this place and one of the reasons the restaurant was unique to me.
Perhaps one of you shared my curiosity and also wondered about the four-drawer compartment at this place. If so, you know the place and can reveal it without the following bonus photos.
Sure, hot sauce, ketchup, sugar, oil, vinegar, salt, pepper and soy sauce can be found in a million restaurants in New York. Or can they?
There is a subtle, or maybe not so subtle, hint on that Chinese zodiac place mat. And those are all the hints I can offer today without giving away the place’s identity.
I eagerly await your answers. As usual, leave them in the comment section below. The place with the mysterious stainless steel four-drawer compartment in the kitchen will be revealed on Monday.
The Yummy Contagion
18 MayThe yumminess is spreading and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
The Yummy Contagion has left its terrible mark on the wonderful cuisine of Thailand. It’s gotten so bad that not only is Thai food referred to as yummy, but some also say it’s become “yum yum.”
I very much like sushi. I just don’t like it when it’s “yummy.”
You could describe dim sum is yummy, but no one is forcing you.
I’m not sure I really want to know what one might encounter within the Yummy House.
By the way, the noodles at Yummy Noodles are…
Neckbones Presents: The Bizarre Eats of Chow City
16 May
We each have our own definition of what might be bizarre when it comes to what we eat. To some, llama hoof in black bean sauce might seem bizarre, but to others, that is sustenance
Here in the city where I dwell, there is ample evidence of peculiar, even exotic, eats. In this new segment of Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, I intend to wander the city streets, mostly aimlessly, searching for the unusual, the weird and wacky.
Weird—wacky—odd; these are all subjective terms when referring to food. What I think is bizarre, or downright disgusting, others might thoroughly enjoy, and even indulge in regularly. So I promise not to judge. I pledge to do my best to respect my fellow man’s questionable taste in food stuffs. If I slip and begin to preach or moralize on the food choices of others, please don’t hesitate to call me on it. Sometimes I just need to be reminded.
The Hawaiian
In my decades of devouring pizza, I have heard tell of an unusual slice called “The Hawaiian.” I have even seen it on display at various pizzerias; the pineapple being the prominent ingredient sitting, unappealingly, on top of the crust surrounding by cheese and ham, the combination repellent to my pizza snob sensibilities.
I knew that in pursuing the bizarre foods of New York there would be challenges. I now needed to search out a slice of Hawaiian and summon the courage to actually sample it.
My first stop was 2 Bros’ Pizza, a chain of 99 cent-slice pizzerias, They advertised the “Hawaiian,” on a display menu. I perused the pre-made cold pies on display but saw none with the customary pineapple.
“Do you have the Hawaiian?” I asked the African man behind the counter.
“The what?”
“The Hawaiian,” I said again, this time pointing to the reference on the list of pies.
He went to the same display of pies I had inspected and returned shaking his head. “No, we don’t have the Hawaiian today.”
“Will you be making any?”
“Not today,” he said.
“Ever?” I inquired hopefully.
“Yes, maybe tomorrow we make it.”
I thanked him for his help and exited.
My next stop was a Chilean-run pizzeria I knew of on the Upper West Side called Freddie & Peppers. I have had their pizza in the past and knew they usually offered very unusual combinations of slices. They just might have the Hawaiian.
I checked out the pre-made pies behind their counter but again, didn’t see any with pineapple. On their menu, there was a mention of a “Hawaiian.”
I asked the South American man behind the counter if he had the Hawaiian.
He looked perplexed. “No, we don’t have that,” he said.
I could tell from his look and the way he responded, that the Hawaiian was not something they made very often or at all anymore. I didn’t press it further or suggest that maybe it would be a good idea to remove it from their menu so as not to disappoint a driven man on a ridiculous quest.
Finally, I stopped at Maria’s Pizzeria further uptown. I double-parked and peered in. On the window was a menu. I saw it there listed as The Hawaiiana.
I ran inside. There it was: a slice adorned with pieces of ham, mozzarella, and, of course, pineapple.
I quickly ordered it and took it home for a family sampling.
The Hawaiian
After reheating it, I cut the slice into pieces, one each for the 8 and 12-year old, another for my discerning wife, and a piece for myself.
The 8-year old looked at it, made a face and shook his head.
“Try it,” I said.
“I don’t want to,” he said. This is from a boy who will eat eel and now calls Part One of the Fazool Trilogy Pasta e Ceci one of his favorite pasta dishes.
“It’s just pineapple.”
He shook his head and left the kitchen.
The 12-year old didn’t hesitate, but he rarely hesitates on anything pizza-related. He ate it heartily. “What do you think?” I asked.
His mouth full, he gave me the thumb’s up.
“Would you order it?”
“No, never,” he said after swallowing.
I nodded.
He eyed his brother’s uneaten piece. “Can I have his?”
I said he could and he stuffed it down.
Now the more mature palates sampled.
“It tastes like it came from a can,” my wife said.
She was right. The pineapple had a metallic flavor to it and its sweetness overpowered the ham and cheese. Though I could find no visual evidence of tomato sauce, there was a hint of it in the slice. How it got there, I don’t know.
The Hawaiian was edible…at least to all of us but the 8-yar old. No one gagged. And we all swallowed what we chewed. Still, I wondered, what would motivate a chef to think to put slices of canned pineapple on a pizza? Did he/she think the sweet would meld with the salty? Maybe some people just need a little sugar on their pizza? And if they do, who am I to deny them that gratification.
Tony and Tina’s Post-Honeymoon Burek
11 MayTony & Tina’s Pizzeria
2483 Arthur Avenue
Bronx
I planned to meet Zio at 593 Crescent Avenue in the Belmont section of the Bronx. This was just off Arthur Avenue, also known as the Little Italy of the Bronx. But I wasn’t making the trek for Italian food; the area is also an enclave for Albanians, Bosnians and Kosovans. I wanted the Albanian equivalent of pizza, known as a burek and Djerdan Burek was, according to Google maps, just a half block from Roberto Paciullo’s place, Roberto’s, and the planned destination for our consumption of bureks.
“I’m bringing the Colonel,” Zio said over the phone on the morning before we were to meet.
It was no problem with me if he brought the Colonel, his long time companion, and the mother of his children, though for some reason he wasn’t very enthusiastic about it.
When I arrived at 593 Crescent Avenue, my enthusiasm waned as well, but not because we would be dining with the Colonel. Instead of being greeted with the smell of freshly baked bureks, I was confronted with the odor of hair tonic from Bato’s Professional Barber Shop. I peered inside hopefully thinking that maybe the bureks were sold in the back of the barber shop, but from what I could see through the window, there was no food at Bato’s.
593 Crescent, where you can get a trim and a shave, but no burek.
I knew there were bureks not too far from Crescent Avenue. I even noticed a “burek” sign in a window a block from Fordham Road when I was driving into the neighborhood. So Zio, the Colonel and I decided to head in that direction.
We strolled past Randazzo’s Seafood, Dominick’s Restaurant, Roberto Paciullo’s other place, Trattoria Zero Otto Nove, Ann & Tony’s Restaurant (“Five Generations”), and the Arthur Avenue Baking Company, before arriving at Tony & Tina’s Pizzeria.
Inside the small pizzeria, we glanced at the assemblage of phyllo dough stuffed pies behind the counter known as bureks. And then we turned our attention to the pizza, garlic knots and calzones on the other side of the counter. Zio’s jaw drooped slightly as he stared at the wan, cold, cheese-congealed pizza. “Is that what an Albanian pizza looks like?” he asked incredulously.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never been to Albania.”
Stick to the items in Albanian.
We went for the combination platter of bureks; cheese, meat, spinach and a spiral shaped one stuffed with sweet pumpkin. As we were about the dig in, the Colonel got a phone call.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” she said, walking out of the pizzeria, cell phone in hand.
“Should we wait?” I asked
“Are you kidding?” Zio scoffed, and quickly began to devour one of the meat bureks.
Meat burek
I was a little hesitant.
“She’ll end up just taking a few bites, anyway,” he garbled with his mouth full of phyllo dough.
The Colonel was outside, leaning against a parked car, cell phone attached to her ear. I decided to take Zio’s advice and began eating.
Cheese burek
All the bureks were flaky and fresh; the cheese mild but not too dense, while the spinach was fragrant with onion. The ground meat in the meat burek had just enough grease to slightly absorb into the pie dough.
Spinach burek
The Colonel returned. “That was my friend M,” she said. “She’s almost 10 centimeters dilated.”
“Uh huh,” Zio muttered disinterestedly, his mouth now stuffed with a cheese burek.
The Colonel took a tiny bite of each and then bagged the rest.
“What did I tell ya,” Zio said.
I tried to answer, but I felt a tickle in my throat. I drank some water. The tickle was still there. I coughed and then took another sip of water. I coughed again. A miniscule flake of phyllo dough was caught in my windpipe. I coughed once more. The flake finally dislodged.
Bill Clinton: A friend and ally of the burek.
The Colonel took her bag of nibbled bureks, and the three of us walked back down Arthur Avenue, Zio stopping briefly at Umberto’s Clam House, where a sign said:“Bus tours are welcome.”
“Didn’t they used to sell live chickens here?” Zio asked.
“They did,” I said. “I once wanted to buy one, but they told me you needed to order it at least a day in advance so they could kill the bird and then clean it up.”
Zio stared at the colorful sign proclaiming Umberto’s many happy hour specials. He shook his head. “Isn’t Umberto’s where Joey Gallo was whacked?” he asked.
“Yeah, but that was at the original on Mulberry Street,” I replied.
He continued to stare and then shook his head. “I liked it better when it was a chicken place,” he said. And then we continued our walk through the Little Italy of the Bronx.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 